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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply